


The Vampires from UNCLE

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a THRUSH created pandemic sweeps through the world, Napoleon and Illya become UNCLE's newest secret weapons in their struggle for superiority.  Hopefully, it won't be a case of too little, too late.</p><p>This is the expanded version of Zombies in the Night and I thank everyone who encouraged me to take this and run with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vampires from UNCLE

There was something about Illya.  Napoleon had noticed it almost from the moment Illya stumbled into their hotel room.  His skin was chalky and flat looking.  Napoleon didn’t know how else to describe it.  It was as if his three-dimensional partner had gone suddenly two-dimensional.  Napoleon tossed the book he’d been reading down onto his bed and watched as Illya shuffled about the room.  It was as if he was looking for something.

“Illya, what’s wrong?”  Napoleon sat up and continued to study Illya.  He was at the door leading to their balcony, his fingers splayed across the glass as if he had lost the concept of what it was and why he couldn’t walk through it.  “Partner?”

Illya turned to him and Napoleon tried to keep the shock from his face.  Illya’s jaw was slack and his eyes staring.  He looked more dead than alive.

Napoleon was off the bed and halfway across the room, even as Illya was pressing back against the door.

“Illya, be careful.  Too much pressure and the glass will break.”

Illya turned lazily back to the glass and began to pound on it, as if frantic to escape, but too tired to put up much of an effort.  This was all very odd behavior and Napoleon was determined to get to the source.

“Illya, what’s wrong?”  

“Go… away…”  The command came out as a half-strangled groan.

“What?  Illya, what’s wrong?”

“Hungry…”  Illya faced him again and his expression had changed from bland to something very different, something almost disturbing.  He took a halting step towards Napoleon.

Napoleon laughed.  “Since when is that news?  I can call for room service or…”  He trailed off as Illya began to advance upon him.  “Illya…?”

“Run!” Illya choked out even as he advanced.

“No, whatever’s wrong, we’ll face it together.  We are partners.  That’s what partners do…”  Illya’s backhand blow caught him by surprise and he was propelled back against the wall.  His head smashed against the wood paneling and for a moment he was dazed.  Napoleon blinked to clear his vision and then a searing pain shot up his arm.  

His eyes widened as he realized Illya was chewing a mouthful of Napoleon’s…

With a yell, Napoleon sat upright in bed.  A moment later the overhead light came on.

Illya was standing there, a robe loosely knotted closed, his glasses still resting on his nose.  “What’s wrong?”

Those words, so achingly familiar, made Napoleon shudder in memory.   “A… a dream… nightmare…” 

“I warned you about that Thai food this late at night.  I was reading in the living room when I heard you yell.” 

 “Why aren’t you in bed?”  Napoleon glanced at the left side of the bed, its pillows still plumped...

“Still on Australian time, I guess,” Illya replied.  “The older I get, the longer it takes to reset my internal clock.  Is your arm hurting much?”  Illya looked down at Napoleon’s bandaged forearm.  “You can have a pain pill now if you need one.” 

Napoleon took a deep breath, listening as his heart started to calm.  He turned on his bedside lamp and took a deep swallow of water.  The images and the pain were still very real. He looked at the bandage, puzzled at first, and then he remembered the Innocent.  They were cornered, surrounded by a pack of wolves.  A wolf attacked and he put up his arm to protect her.  It had only been Mark’s timely arrival that kept Napoleon and his charge from being ripped to shreds.  “No, it’s sore, but I’m okay.”

Illya pulled off his robe, exposing bandages of his own.  It had been a rough week for both of them.  Now they were home, safe and mostly sound.  “You are just lucky they all tested negative for rabies or you would be suffering through a very different night in Medical.”

Napoleon leaned back against his pillows and stared up at the ceiling.  He jumped when Illya stroked his cheek softly.   Then he looked over and groaned at the vacant eyes staring back at him.  He didn’t even scream this time…

Napoleon let out a yell and Illya was out of bed with a gun in his hand.

Napoleon cursed beneath his breath and clicked on the light.  “Sorry…”

“Cost of the trade.”   Nightmares were nothing new to either of them.  Illya yawned, and stretched before stuffing the gun back under the pillow.  Stretching again, he walked to the bathroom, scratching his stomach absently.

Napoleon paused and listened for a moment.  The city was far below the penthouse and the noise never quite got up this high.  He heard the toilet flush and the taps running for a minute.  

Illya appeared in the doorway for a moment, holding a bottle of something.  “You want a rubdown?” 

It was their standard procedure after just such an event.  The feeling of the other’s hands against skin always pushed the darker images aside.  Napoleon nodded and Illya clicked off the light.

“You’re not going to start eating me, are you?” Napoleon asked as Illya’s darkened form approached the bed.  He lay down and rolled over.

“I beg your pardon?”  Illya sat beside him, a towel over one shoulder, and opened the bottle.  “I thought we took care of that earlier this evening.”

Napoleon gasped as a splash of alcohol hit his overheated skin, immediately followed by a familiarly calloused hand.  Whatever comeback he had thought up slipped from his mind as Illya’s fingers worked their way across his back.  He was barely conscious by the time Illya got to his waist.   Sleep settled in beside Napoleon, luring him back into slumber.

 Napoleon felt the bed shift as Illya tucked himself back in.  An arm settled comfortably over him and, comforted, Napoleon slept, knowing the zombies would be kept at bay now.

 

_Halfway around the world_

Les Moore adjusted his glasses and listened to a voice crackle in his ear.

“Stop messing with them.  I’m out of focus again.”  His partner’s voice was distorted by the small earpiece Les wore.  

Les didn’t answer.  There was a microphone in the camera that had been concealed in his glasses.  For a month, he’d been working undercover at the THRUSH lab -- running reports, cleaning beakers, and being ignored by the head scientists on this project.  That was exactly as he wanted it.

“Moore, where the hell are you?”  The voice came through the locker room door and Les shut his locker loudly.

“Jeez, will you watch it!  I’m not hard of hearing.”

“I’ll be right out,” Les shouted back and pulled on his lab coat.  UNCLE had been staking out this lab, as they routinely did other labs.  He suspected THRUSH did the same thing with their labs, letting the agents do the grunt work until they got too close and then offing them.  Les was being very careful to not get overly interested in anything except the end of his shift.  He was also careful to display just enough curiosity to not call attention to his disinterest.  It was a tightrope he walked on a regular basis. 

He walked into the corridor and followed it a short distance to the lab.  Unlike the stifling jungle outside, the lab was cool and almost airy, if you didn’t mind the stink of chemicals and animals.  Not far away, his partner sat hunched over recording devices, slapping insects, cursing the heat, and listening to birds singing.  Les wasn’t sure which one of them had the harder job this time.

He collected his cart of janitorial equipment and began his daily routine of emptying trash.  

“Hey, Moore, I’ve got something else for you instead.  And put on the rubber suit.”  The scientist pointed to a bright orange suit that hung off a hook.  He’d passed that suit daily and wondered what it was for.  Now he was going to find out.

“All right, don’t get your lab coat into a knot,” Les muttered as he climbed into the suit and attached the head piece.  It was like wrapping himself in humidity and he almost instant began to gasp for breath.  He staggered and grabbed for something to support himself.  The something happened to be another scientist who pushed him roughly away.

“Get off me!”

“Hang on to me for a minute.”  It was Hanley.  Moore liked him; he was the most decent of the THRUSH scientists.  “Just relax and try to breath normally.”

Les nodded and eventually the claustrophobic feeling left him.   

“You okay now?”  a third scientist asked and Les nodded.  “Groovy.  Follow me.”  Les was led to a door that had warning signs all over it.  He’d been told to steer clear of that door when he’d arrived.  He’d expressed just enough interest to throw the THRUSH off, all the while trying to gather as much info about it as he could.

“Wait, you told me never to go in there.”

“Without protective gear,” Hanley said, slapping Les on the shoulder.  “Now comes the big reveal.”

“What do you want me to do inside?” Les asked as the door was opened and he stepped inside.

“Survive, UNCLE man, that’s all.” The door slammed shut and Les moaned.  “Damn it, Parker, get me out of here.”  Only silence answered him and he suddenly realized that either the suit or the room was preventing his signal from getting out.

He looked around at the room.  It was dark and hot, stifling in fact and it made him slightly lightheaded.  It looked okay, so he pulled the hood off and looked around.  

“Can you hear me, Parker?” he whispered.

“No, he can’t, Moore.”  The voice from an overhead speaker answered.  “In fact, your partner is quite probably dead by now.  We dispatched some agents to rid ourselves of him.”

Les tried to keep good thoughts.  Parker was a senior agent with more tricks up his sleeve that even the infamous Solo possessed.  Then he heard a noise.  He squinted in the direction it came from, trying to see what was moving, but it was all around him, overhead and surrounding him all at the same time.  Beating on the door, Les demanded, “For the love of God, let me out!”

“Can’t do that, UNCLE man.  We’ve been testing this on animals for six months with some very interesting results.  Now it’s time to subject a human lab rat to the virus.”

“I don’t want to die!  I have a wife and family!”  He was lying but he didn’t care.  All he wanted to do was get away from the noise.

“Sorry… but you need to die for the sake of science.  Maybe UNCLE will erect a plaque for you.  It’ll hang in the entrance and say: ‘He gave his all for the betterment of THRUSH --no Moore, no Les.’”

However, Les didn’t hear the pun on his name.  He was too busy screaming.

 

_In New York_

                                                                                *****

Napoleon was adjusting his tie as he walked from the bedroom into the living room.  Aside from that one bout of nightmares, he’d slept pretty well.  He looked over at Illya, who was sitting on the couch, surrounded by newspaper and the other trappings of breakfast.

“Did you leave me anything?” Napoleon asked as he took a step towards the kitchen.  Then he saw the communicator and paused.

“Yes, sir, I understand.  Kuryakin out.”

If it was possible, Illya looked even more somber than before.  Now Napoleon abandoned all thoughts of breakfast.  He closed the gap between himself and the sofa.

“Illya?”

“That was…”  Illya cleared his throat.  “We lost Agent Parker this morning.”

“Grayson?”  

“We… went through Survival School together.  He was one of the first to decide that perhaps I wasn’t the monster Cutter thought I was because I was Soviet.  I don’t think I would have made it through my first month without him.”

“He was Lester’s partner, wasn’t he?  How’s Les taking it?”

“Les… is … “

“Illya, what’s wrong.  You’ve gone as white as a sheet!”

“Les was apparently exposed to something at a lab where he’d been undercover.   Grayson called for backup and the squad went in.  The lab was abandoned except for several large raptors.”

“Raptors?”

“Uh… I think he said eagles… they attacked our agents and then flew off.  Our agents were barely able to escape the onslaught.  On their way out, they found Les.  He’d been practically ripped to shreds… but somehow he was still alive.”  Napoleon sat quietly, watching Illya struggle for each word.  “He came to on the helicopter and attacked the medic treating him.  When Grayson tried to calm him down… Les… ripped him apart with his bare hands.

“What?  How?”

“The chopper pilot panicked and bailed.  The chopper crashed, but Les walked away from it.  All they found were the remains of Grayson and the medic.  The ME said it looked as if the bones had been gnawed.”

Napoleon shuddered involuntarily, the details of his nightmares coming back to him in way too vivid color.

“Shit.”  Napoleon didn’t swear often but, when he broke down and did, he usually meant it.

“Not just that, Napoleon.  The pilot said he unloaded his entire clip into Les and the man didn’t even flinch.”

“How is that possible? “

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling Mr. Waverly might.  He wants us in right now.  No time for breakfast.”

“Somehow, I’m okay with that.”

                                                                                ****

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin sat quietly at the circular table.  Any sense of horseplay had been left at the door.  Waverly’s gray eyes were serious, gravely serious and both men understood this was a time to be focused and attentive.

“This is very bad business indeed, gentlemen,” Waverly began.  He turned to look at a screen.  “Your attention, please, gentlemen.”

The screen came to life.  It was a lab.  From the angle, it was apparent that it was being filmed on the sly.  

“Hanley, grab that beaker.  Swenson, watch the monkey doesn’t bite you!  Wear your protective gear!  Do you want to die?”

At that comment, both men sat forward just the slightest bit more, their attention now firmly fixed.  There was a noise, an explosion, and the camera angle tilted wildly.  There were shouts of confusion and then an order to abandon the lab.  Gunfire answered and the camera flicked around, catching one of the black-hooded assailants.  More shouts, more demands for compliance, more gunfire.  

A scream, a begging plea, “Don’t release them!” rose above everything as cage doors opened and the panicking animals within began escaping.

A soft “Who are you then?” and the face of a known THRUSH agent suddenly commandeered the screen and it went black.

“Our agent managed to pass this film on just before he succumbed to his injuries.”

“Was that one of our squads, sir?”  Napoleon was the first of the two agents to speak.  Illya’s focus dropped to the table top in an attempt to assimilate what he’d just seen.

“No, Mr. Solo, it was a group that fights for the ethical treatment of animals around the world.  Apparently they caught wind of the experiments being performed on the animals here and decided to free them.  In doing so, they have now condemned many people to a painful death.  I applaud their intent, if not their foresight.”

“The animals must have been exposed to something deadly,”  Illya said quietly.  “That’s why the call for protective gear. Do we know what they were exposed to, sir?”

“Sadly, Mr. Kuryakin, we do.  Five members of the hospital staff treating our agent almost immediately contracted the disease.  It is highly contagious and very aggressive once it inhabits its host.”  The screen came back to life.  The film was of better quality and was narrated.  The voice had a distinctive Haitian accent .

The film showed a group of people shuffling aimlessly around a barred room.  The moment the camera man came closer to them, they moved towards him, mumbling and reached for him.

“Don’t let them touch you!” the narrator barked.  “It’s passed by touch!”  The camera pulled away.

“We now have at least a thousand confirmed cases of this new virus since its diagnosis yesterday.  We have no way of knowing how many cases are in the outskirts or in the villages.  It is sweeping throughout the city and nearing our borders.  For that reason, we are urging everyone who is not infected to leave now and beg that no one come to our assistance.  At the moment, there is no cure.”

There was a sudden jerk of the camera and a scream.  The screen filled with a distorted view of a face that most certainly was more dead than alive.  It bobbed close, then went away, the mouth bloodstained and chewing.  There was a bone-crunching noise, followed by the appearance of a blood-stained man.  He was holding a shovel.  His face was filled with a mix of sorrow and revulsion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, swinging the shovel, and the camera went black.

“Since that film was delivered to us, Haiti and the Dominican Republic have been declared off limits to anyone by their government.  It didn’t stop some damn fool reporter from landing and very nearly being killed the moment he stepped onto the shore.”

“From the disease?”

“From people frantic to leave.  He was able to escape and report back.  Apparently the ocean was littered with the bodies of people who tried to swim to freedom.  The disease has already started showing up in Cuba and San Juan.  We have lost all contact with Jamaica and some of the smaller islands in the region.”

“God help them,” Napoleon murmured and sighed.

“And us, as well, I should think, Mr. Solo.”

_In Trinidad_

Paul Rubio was keeping one eye on the showroom and another on his workers in the back room even as he busily glued colorful feathers onto a cape.  _Carnival_ would be on them soon and they were behind schedule.  While many had already purchased their costumes, there were always stragglers and visitors who drifted into his shop.  Carried away in the excitement of the upcoming event, tourists would stagger out with hundreds of American dollars’ worth of masks, capes, and headdresses.  What they did with them wasn’t Rubio’s concern.  Getting them to impulse buy was.

The workroom was hot, and stuffy, almost claustrophobic.   The ceiling fans moved lazily, barely moving the air at all, but that was necessary.  Any faster and they would cause havoc with the mountains of feathers, dyed to every hue of the rainbow.  They were heaped on the work tables, piled up in plastic bags big enough to hold a small cow.  Finished pieces hung from the roof in long rows of brilliant colors and Rubio prayed he’d finish his orders before he ran out of the feathers.  For some reason, this year purple seemed the color of choice and he was running low.

“Craziest thing happened last night.”  He heard one of the workers talking softly to her tablemate, but he didn’t chastise her.  The reason his workers put up with the horrible working conditions was that Rubio was a tolerant boss.  He let them talk, sing, even listen to music.  As long as it didn’t disrupt the workflow, he permitted it.  Most bosses weren’t as lenient.

_“¿Qué?”_

“My cousin, Roger, the crazy one, he went to get eggs and the chickens attacked him!  He screamed like a little girl!”

_“¿Dolió?”_

“I don’t know.  Papa called this morning from the corner store and there was no answer.  Imagine having your own phone and not answering it!  I would answer it no matter what.”

“What are you going to do?” Rubio asked and the two young women looked at him, startled.  “My apologies for overhearing.”

“Papa was going out there this morning.  He has to make a stop at the bird sanctuary and will travel on to Waterloo after that.  He’ll let us know if our crazy cousin was overcome by chickens!”

There was a noise in the shop and Rubio looked sharply in its direction.  The door had been flung open and two people shuffled in.  He held up a hand to quiet his workers and laid his tools aside.  Slipping off his work apron, he took his place behind the counter.

“Welcome, my friends.  As you can see we have several fine _Carnival_ costumes from which to choose.”  The taller of the pair reached out and grabbed a mannequin, knocking it from its shelf.  “Please, I will be happy to show you any outfit you desire, but do not disturb our displays.”

The shorter person, Rubio guessed it was a woman, moved towards him and he took a step back at the sore-covered face and the staring eyes.  He was an educated man, even holding a master’s in business, but what he saw was not from any textbook.  Even as they stumbled closer to him, Rubio was crossing himself.

“Run!” he shouted to his workers in the back.  “Zombies!”  But it was already too late.  

They were breaking through the thin walls of the workshop and, with a shock of horror, Rubio realized one of his workers was being attacked by her own father and cousin.  He grabbed a chair, intent upon beating them off her, but instead had to fight off the two in the front room.  

The screams were truly bloodcurdling as metal met flesh.  It took them down, but not for long.  Rubio took advantage of the respite and raced to the door of his shop.

Then he stopped as the milling crowd in the street looked in his direction, their clothes decorated with the blood and gore of their victims.  He took an involuntary step back and saw one of his workers, festooned in bright feathers, stumbling towards him.

With a cry, he succumbed.

 

_In Fort Lauderdale_

Joe Hansen had seen a lot of strange things in his time but this took the cake.  Two tugs were guiding a cruise ship into port.  All attempts to raise the ship had been fruitless.  Their first hint of trouble came around dawn when the pilot boat headed out to the ship and couldn’t get on board.  After that, it had been a free-for-all.  The Coast Guard did a fly-over and saw people milling about on the deck, but there were no responses to their hails.  Finally the decision was made to bring the big ship in and sort out what had happened dockside.

They finally got the ship tied up, although it was a struggle without any help from the crew.

“Jeez, Joaquin, have you ever seen anything like this?”  Joe pulled off his watch cap and wiped the sweat from his face with it.

“Only once, but that was a ghost ship and not this big.”

“Ghost ship?”

“It was a yacht and the best the authorities ever figured out there was either a piracy or murder/suicide.  Found blood, but no bodies. “ He waved his hand to drive away the sea gulls.  “What’s gotten into them? They are acting like extras from _The Birds_.”

“They’ve been that way all morning.   A gull sent Roberts to the hospital this morning.  Damn bird dived bombed him and gave him a concussion.”

Two other dockworkers pushed up a portable gangway since the port authorities didn’t trust bringing the big ship into the actual cruise terminal.

“Where is everyone?” Joe muttered.  “Usually you see people along the railings… and there’s always some idiot trying to be the first one off the ship.”

“No idea.”

As soon as the gangway was secure, three port security men climbed it and hefted themselves over the rail.  One stayed behind to unlock the ropes while the others moved quickly out of view.  Almost immediately, the security guard was approached.

Joaquin pointed.  “There you go.  Your must-be-first guy.”  Then the man grabbed the security guard and dragged him from sight.  There were shots fired and several other police and security agents raced towards the gangway.

Abruptly the security guard appeared, his clothes ripped, his body bleeding from a dozen spots.  He staggered onto the gangway and was immediately grabbed by his coworkers.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

“Shit, look at them!”

Three figures were shuffling towards the gangway, murmuring softly, almost moaning, their arms outstretched as if searching for something.  Behind them were more people, pushing forward.  If one stumbled, the others merely trampled him as they made their way down the gangplank.

Other passengers merely climbed over the edge of the ship and torpedoed to the ground.  Horrified, Joe watched as they pushed themselves up and began to move, many of them comically as they dealt with shattered legs and pelvises.

The lead cruise members stumbled onto land and a nearby security cop ran up to help them.  That was a mistake.  Both Joe and Joaquin watched as the cop was mobbed.  One overweight man wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt looked over in their direction, a chunk of flesh hanging from his mouth.  He took a step towards them and both dockworkers retreated.

“Shit, I’m getting out of here.” Joaquin threw his work orders to the ground and started to run.  He stumbled and was immediately set upon.

Joe hesitated.  He’d been hired at the same time as Joaquin.  They’d practically grown up together on the docks.  Their families celebrated milestones together.  However, it was obvious there was nothing he could do.  It was already too late for the screaming Joaquin.

Then Joe realized with a wave of nausea, it was too late for him as well.  He was surrounded.  He was a big man, so he picked the smallest target, an old woman, figuring he could muscle his way over her.  He figured wrong and went down in a flurry of arms and legs and screams.

 

_In Haiti_

The _Britannia_ rocked gently with the waves, lulling its occupants into an easy sleep most nights. Tonight, however, was not like most nights.

Commodore William Penn-Taylor stood on his bridge, studying the shoreline with binoculars.  He’d sent a landing party ahead hours ago and there was still no sign of them.

They’d had a hint of trouble earlier in the day when they had received a rather cryptic message demanding that the Royal Yacht _Britannia_ stay away.   No Commonwealth country refused a visit from their monarch and as a result, Penn-Taylor was worried and confused.

“Anything, sir?  

Penn-Taylor glanced over at his second-in-command and slowly shook his head.  “There are several bonfires on the beach and I can see people moving.  I don’t know what to make of it, Arthur.”

There was a thunk against the hull and Penn-Taylor turned to an ensign.  “Get a light down there.”

Obediently the man directed a spotlight down into the water.

There was a boat.  It might have even been one of theirs for all the damage inflicted upon it.  In it sat three people but they didn’t react when the light hit them.  They were too busy huddled over something.

“Three people, sir.  What do we do?”

“We save them, Gilbert. That’s what Her Majesty would want,” Penn-Taylor shouted back down.

Then they watched as a boat hook was extended and a handheld light brightened up the small vessel.  Suddenly, the sailor holding the hook dropped it and began to vomit over the side.

“What the hell?” Arthur muttered.  

“What is going on down there?”

“Sir, I think you need to get down here right away!”  The other man had backed away from the railing.

Penn-Taylor sighed and adjusted his collar.  “Just what I need to make this night complete.  Hot bloody night and now this.  Come along, Arthur.  Let’s see what’s got their knickers in a knot.”

He descended from the bridge and winced as a wall of heat and humidity hit him head on.  He kept from mopping his brow as there were several other crew members on the deck but, thankfully, none of the Royals.

The men were agitated and seemed greatly relieved when they realized their captain was among them.

“Bring that light here.”  He held out his hand and a powerful flashlight was passed to him.  He focused the beam on the boat and yelled, “Ahoy, there!  Do you need help?”

One of the figures turned and reached up to him.  That was when Commodore Penn-Taylor’s hot bloody night turned into a full-scale nightmare as he witnessed the bloody hands, the bloody features, and what was left of the bosun’s body on the bottom of the boat.

_In New York_

Napoleon Solo sat back in his chair and tossed paperclips towards a paper cup.  His mind was racing and this was his attempt to slow it down enough for him to organize some of his thoughts.  Ever since their conversation with Waverly, he’d been thinking, trying to come up with some angle.

Napoleon glanced over at Illya.  He was doodling on a report cover, his version of doing the same as Napoleon.

“What if we contain it to the islands and let it die a natural death, as it were?”  The paperclip was dead on.  “It would be a death sentence for anyone there but surely that outweighs the welfare of the world.”

“I think anyone with family there would disagree.  We have to try to keep things contained long enough for the brains at the CDC to come up with something.”

“Were they notified?”  A paperclip bounced off the edge of the cup and fell aside.

“I heard Waverly asking his secretary to contact them.  I think the film will be enough to convince them that it would be in the best interests of mankind to get involved.”

“So… we just need to keep the world safe until they get around to it.”

“Any ideas how we are going to do that?”

“Not a clue.  Still, as long as we keep it in the Caribbean…”  The loud sharp ring of the phone interrupted him.  He grabbed up the receiver and held it to his ear.  “Solo… I understand.  We are on our way.”

“Waverly’s office?”  Illya started to stand, anxious for any sort of activity.

“I have a feeling our ‘get out of jail free’ card is about to be called.”

“Pardon?”  Illya hesitated as he pulled on his suit jacket, his brow furrowed.

“It’s a game… Never mind.”  Napoleon stood and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.  “Let’s go.”

As they entered the office, Waverly was speaking into a phone. “I understand, Jasper, we will do what we can.”

Napoleon nudged Illya.  “Jasper… Hinkley?  Head of the UN?”

“If it is, the game has just heated up a notch.”  Illya plopped down in his usual seat and folded his hands before him.  Napoleon slid gracefully into his, his eyes never leaving Waverly’s face. 

“Please reassure Her Majesty that we will do all within our power to find a solution.  Jasper, if you would build a bit more of a flame under our friends at the CDC, I would appreciate that.”  Waverly hung up the phone before turning to his agents.

“Sir, am I correct in assuming that the disease has become an epidemic?”

“No, Mr. Solo, the UN just declared this to be all-out war for the survival of the planet.  They have initiated an EAC Stage Two.”

“EAC, sir?”  Napoleon frowned as he tried to place the acronym.

“Emergency Action Code,” Waverly supplied as he reached for his pipe.

“Is Stage Two bad?”  Illya was hopeful that that number was low and not high.

“The only thing higher is a Stage One and that is reserved for nuclear annihilation, Mr. Kuryakin.  The UN has called upon us to attempt to save the world.”

The two men exchanged a knowing look.  It was not the first time the world had been placed in their hands for safe keeping.   “At least everyone will see things our way and cooperate.”

 “Sadly, Mr. Solo, THRUSH has not.”  

“THRUSH is spreading the disease?”  Illya’s voice was strained with disbelief.  “Surely even they aren’t that foolhardy. “

“Not on purpose or so it would seem.  When the lab was discovered, there were several large birds… they were also infected and they escaped.”  

“Birds, actual birds, are carrying the disease?” Illya asked, deadpan.  “There are millions of birds on Earth.”

“Far more than humans.”  Napoleon stood and walked to a window.  From here, he could see birds soaring and riding the thermals about the city.  “We are in serious trouble.”

“Be that as it may, gentlemen, we have a weapon…”

Mr. Waverly led the way from his office into the bowels of UNCLE HQ, weaving a path down into the Research and Development department.  This was where all of their weapons were created and tested.  Napoleon had been down here before but never on a regular basis.  This was a place for men of other talents than his own.  Illya seemed at home enough to be able to anticipate turns in the corridors.  For the moment, Napoleon was content bringing up the rear.

They stepped through a nondescript door into a large open room.  There were various lab benches decorated with the tools of the trade.  Two scientists looked up as they entered and one raised a hand in a half-hearted wave.

“What of your news, gentlemen?” Waverly asked without preamble.  As he made no attempt to introduce them, both Napoleon and Illya stood back, watching and listening.  It was something at which they both excelled.

“Not very much, I’m afraid.”

“We’ve taken it as far as we can without further testing.”  The speaker was eyeing them as if they were lambs to the slaughter.  Napoleon set his face with a confident, self-assured look.  Illya didn’t even appear to notice.

“You mentioned a weapon?” Napoleon prompted Waverly.

“For many months now, UNCLE has been exploring a different path of weaponry.   For years, we have relied upon guns, conventional weapons, and the skill of our agents.  THRUSH, on the other hand, has been exploring more insidious methods, including genetic alteration.”

“So we’ve seen.” Napoleon watched Illya out of the corner of his eye.  The man seemed distracted, only partially focused upon their conversation.  He was staring at cages of monkeys, watching their movements.

“As odious as the thought is, UNCLE has also been forced to take similar steps--”

“We’ve been trying to develop a serum that would create, in essence, a super agent.”

“Super agent?”  Napoleon’s lips curled into a smile.  “Like moving at the speed of light or leaping tall buildings?  That sounds like something out of one of Illya’s comic books.”  That brought a sharp reactive glare from his partner.  Apparently, Illya was listening to them.

“We have been a bit more realistic with our goal.  We have been attempting to accelerate the healing process.”

“Shades of Nazarone,” Illya muttered.  “We all know how well that turned out, for some of us more than others.” He’d very nearly pulled a fast one on Napoleon with that affair.  It had also started them upon a very different path in their relationship, a path that had resulted in something much more than mere friendship being shared.

“We aren’t as aggressive with it.  THRUSH was going for a full and immediate regeneration.  We are looking to merely take a day or so off of the entire healing process.  And it wouldn’t save you from a fatal injury.   A mortal blow would still kill you, but the upside is that you would live longer because the aging process is slowed as well.  Or at least we speculate that would be a likely conclusion.”

“What else?”

“By tweaking Plus X, we have been able to enhance the senses, but not to the point of insanity.   We’ve improved the ability to see clearly in low light situations.  However, the side effect appears to be increased photosensitivity, mostly to natural sunlight.”

“I see a marked improvement in sales of sunglasses,” Napoleon muttered to Illya, who merely smirked his agreement.  Waverly shot them a look and they both sobered.

“However, we still have one side effect that we cannot conquer.  The drug we’ve developed causes extreme anemia.  So far, the only way of treating it is with the ingestion of blood.”

“Ingestion of blood, sensitivity to sunlight, and slowed aging? It sounds like you two have cornered the market on Halloween.  You can make your own vampires.”  

The two scientists exchanged troubled looks.  “It would appear that way, although we have no way of proving any of this.  It’s merely conjecture.”

“Why’s that?”

“We haven’t gone into human trials.”

“I have a very unwell feeling in the pit of my stomach, Napoleon.”  Illya took a step backwards.  “You surely can’t be suggesting that we act as your test subjects.”

“We haven’t lost any of our test animals.  All of them are alive and well, providing they are given blood to combat their anemia.”

“How did they respond to the reversal of the drug?”

“So far, we don’t have a reversal agent, although we are very close.  Just a few more days and we should have it.”

“I find your argument failing to reassure me.  You are saying that, as of this moment, this would be a permanent condition?”

“Yes… I’m afraid so.”

“May I ask… why us?”

“You’re the best we have and our most likely champions in this war,” the first scientist said, shifting uneasily.  “You see, anyone taking this drug would be immune to whatever the epidemic is.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, it’s mostly conjecture at this point but, with a superior immune system, it would seem a safe assumption.”

“Unless you’re the one being asked to bare your arm and take it.”

“I can’t order either of you to do this.” Waverly spoke up, his voice soothing and calming.  “You must go into this with your eyes fully open and with the realization that your condition may well be permanent.  Yet, I would hope that you would examine your conscience and let it guide your decision.  I’ll await your decision tomorrow morning.”

 

_In New York_

Napoleon led the way into their apartment and moved straight to the liquor cabinet.  He poured a stiff drink for himself and a second one for Illya.  Illya carried the takeout to the kitchen and began unloading the bags.  They’d chosen Thai this night for no reason other than that on Wednesday nights, it was usually what they ate when they were in New York.

They hadn’t talked much on the ride home.  Each man was lost in a daze of what had been asked of them.  Or at least Napoleon supposed they were.  Illya had remained stone-faced through the rest of the explanation as they were shown various specimens and reassured that the animals were content and healthy.

“What happens without the blood?” Illya had asked.

“You grow steadily weaker until your heart gives out.”  Napoleon had nicknamed the scientists Heckle and Jeckle, but he couldn’t tell one from the other.

“We’re not immortal then.”

“By no means.  A bullet to the head will kill you just as surely either way.” Heckle had found that question very funny for some reason.  Illya hadn’t looked amused.

“Good.”  Illya’s answer made the scientist stop laughing and frown.

“You aren’t going to become actual vampires, Mr. Kuryakin.  I can assure you that you can eat your own weight in garlic, still use a mirror to shave, and cross bodies of water without taking dirt from your native soil. “

Somehow that had seemed to satisfy Illya, but Napoleon’s head was still whirling.  

By habit, he walked to his answering machine and pressed the rewind button.  After a moment, it clicked into the ‘play’ mode and he smiled at the sound of his Aunt Amy’s voice.

“Napoleon, sweetheart, I didn’t want you to worry, but Margaret and I have decided to spend the rest of the week in Florida after the cruise.  She’s never seen the Everglades.  Our ship, the Regal, will be docking in Fort Lauderdale in three days.  I should be home in plenty of time for our annual trek to Vermont.  I love you, sweetheart.  Bye!”

For some reason, hearing his aunt’s voice, so happy and full of life, made him even more conflicted.  He was a highly trained agent.  Thousands of dollars had been invested in him.  Why was he being asked to do this?  Why not some more expendable agent?  He plopped down on the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table.

“She never stops for long, does she?” Illya asked from the kitchen.  

“My dad used to say Solos were like sharks in that if we stay still for too long, we die.”

Illya carried a plate of food to Napoleon and set it on the coffee table in front of him.  It was apparent that neither of them had much of an appetite by the way in which Napoleon pushed the plate away and Illya merely stared at his.

“What are we going to do, Illya?” Napoleon mumbled, staring into his glass.

“Why do you say that as if we have a choice?”

“We do.  We can decline.  We do have that right--” He broke off at Illya’s snort.  “We do!”

“Then we were listening to two different conversations.”  Illya sat back on the couch and studied the ceiling.  “Waverly has already made up our minds for us.”

“He wouldn’t do that; not with something as life-changing as this. “

“Wouldn’t he?  With one snap of his fingers, I’m on a plane back to sunny Moscow.  Goodbye, UNCLE.  Goodbye, New York.”

“You can’t think he’d do that to you?”

“Look at what he wants to do to us – be human guinea pigs.”  Illya sat up and retrieved his glass, downing the contents.  “And here I thought THRUSH were the barbarians.”

“They are. **They** wouldn’t have asked.”

“I know my duty, Napoleon.  I know what I signed up for, but…”

“It didn’t include being turned into a vampire and, I don’t care what they say, that’s what they want to do to us.  Turn us into vampires to stop a zombie epidemic.”

“Now all we need is a hunchback for a lab assistant and a massive rainstorm to make our horror movie complete.”  Illya got up and walked to the bar.  He refilled his glass and carried the bottle to Napoleon.

“Alcohol isn’t likely to help the decision-making process.”  Nevertheless, Napoleon held out his glass.

“From where I’m sitting, it can’t hurt.”

They again lapsed into silence.  The occasional honk of a car was the only reminder of life outside the penthouse.

“Illya, what if we can’t have sex ever again?”

“Huh?”   Illya’s head came up from his pleasant lolling position on the couch, his body made nearly boneless from drink.  “I shudder to ask how you segued into that train of thought.”

“Well, if we take the injection, we will become anemic.  A penis needs blood to operate properly.”

“I don’t believe this.”  Illya smiled faintly.  “The drug will probably kill us and you’re thinking about sex.”  He sighed, long and hard.  “The animals seemed okay…”

“They’re animals.  I just can’t…”

“Trust me, Napoleon, the last problem Dracula had was with the opposite sex.”

“I’m not worried about the opposite sex… I’m worried about us.”

Illya reached out a hand and patted Napoleon’s leg.  “No matter what, Napoleon, we will be fine.”

“I can’t help thinking… and wondering.”  Then Illya kissed him and it became very easy to stop thinking.

 

_In Cancun_

The THRUSH operative pulled off his gas mask as he entered a small ante chamber and held still.  He knew he was being studied through the protective glass.  When it was deemed he was not contaminated, he was allowed into the reception area.

“Dougall Haines, reporting from Galway,” he spoke to no one in particular.  A red light flashed and he was careful not to shy from it.  For some reason, the infected victims didn’t seem to like red very much.

“Report.”

“The contamination has arrived in Europe.  Parliament has sealed off the borders to Scotland and England, not that it’s keeping the disease from spreading.  There have already been reports in Kent and in Glasgow.  Anywhere birds can fly, the disease can be spread.”

A door slid back and the head of THRUSH South America stood in the doorway.  He looked the man up and down for a long time before stepping into the room.  “Has there been any success at isolation?”

“We can contain, even destroy an island or a country and its people, but we can’t stop the birds.  That is what is spreading this, not people.  What options do we have?”

“That is what we are here to discuss. Why we have to do it in person is beyond me.  He demanded it and what he wants, we’ll give him.   Follow me, please.”

The THRUSH chief led the way into the building, now more a fortress against the disease from outside.  They passed a room and Dougall took an involuntary step back as a figure smashed against the glass and collapsed, only to be piled on by others and ripped to shreds.  

“We collected a few victims as test subjects.  When denied fresh meat, they tend to turn on each other.”  The chief dropped a metal grate over the glass to block the view.  “So much for the clear and rational thinking of our boss.  Any fool would have seen that coming.”

“And there’s no cure?”

“Sadly, the research was terminated before we were able to discover that.  All the notes were lost during a surprise raid by UNCLE agents.”  He stopped before a door and gave a coded knock.  A moment later, the door eased open and they were permitted entrance.

“UNCLE has them?”  Dougall shook his head.  That was just what they needed.  All of the answers to their plight were in the hands of their enemies.

“Yes, and as far as we can tell, they have yet to decipher them.  The new code seems to be working admirably.”

There was a tall man standing at the end of a long narrow table.  Several men were already seated and looked about as happy being there as Dougall was.  He sat in one of the two empty chairs and placed his folded hands on the table.  He tried to keep his features bland and unimpressed at the thought that before them was the head of all of THRUSH Central.  The one man who controlled all of them and who could eliminate them with a flick of his hand.

“Too much so, I’m afraid, Mr. Henson.”   Age had stooped the shoulders slightly and etched the features a bit more sharply, but the mind of Victor Marton was as clear as that of a young man.   He waited for the two to sit.  “And I’m afraid this is putting THRUSH in a bit of an uncomfortable position.”

“What is your suggestion, sir?”  Henson, Dougall’s escort, was now a model of simpering loyalty.

“I am advising a temporary truce and partnership with UNCLE.  We had a possible cure, but, lacking the code, no way to recreate it.   UNCLE has the code, but not the cure.” 

“Why don’t we just let it burn itself out?”  A thick necked blond asked.  Dougall recognized him as their man in the USSR.

“Have you seen what’s happening out there?!” Dougall asked, then grew quiet as Marton held up a cautionary hand.  

“It’s going to be rather difficult to subjugate humanity if there’s none left.  This disease is rapidly approaching pandemic proportions.  Desperate steps are necessary.”

“UNCLE would never hear of it.  They don’t trust us.”

“No, but Alexander trusts me.  We go back a long way.”  Victor’s eyes became unfocused as he remembered the mud and stench of the trench and of a young and resourceful British officer.  Alexander had saved their hides again and again during that hideous war.  It would be only right that he save their hides yet again in yet another hideous war.  “He’s a good man to have at your side in a pinch.”

“There has to be another way.”

“Does there, Mr. Karsorof?  I am willing to entertain your suggestion.”

“I don’t… I mean… They’re UNCLE.  They are stupid and they smell bad.”

Marton raised an eyebrow and his face grew even more severe.  “And what is your excuse for their ability to thwart every scheme you have hatched in your less-than-industrious career?”

“Luck… and Kuryakin… we should have recruited him first!”

“That unpleasant young man.”  Marton had less-than-charitable memories of Kuryakin.  “I am extraordinarily delighted THRUSH did not entice him away from Cambridge or we all could well have been working for him.”  Victor shuddered at the thought.

                                                                ******

Despite the warmth of the blankets and the body beside him, Illya shuddered.

“Someone walk over your grave?” Napoleon murmured into Illya’s ear and the man’s head turned to study his partner with sleepy blue eyes.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s what my mom used to say.  I picked it up from her.”  Napoleon’s hand was stroking the hair on Illya’s chest, fingers tickling and caressing at the same time.

“You never have to worry, Napoleon.”

“About what?  Having a grave?”

“Not having a sex life.”

The remark acted as a bucket of cold water over Napoleon.  Until that point, he’d forgotten all about the decision that was still looming before of them.  They purposefully avoided discussing it in bed last night and now it stared back at them.  “Why did you have to remind me?”

“It’s not as if either of us will have the opportunity to forget.”  Illya climbed from the bed and stretched, then stood and stretched again.  “Thompson says that with this new drug, we’ll need less than half the amount of sleep that we do now.  That’s a shame.  I like sleep.”

“You talk as if you’ve already made up your mind.”

Illya shrugged and walked to the bathroom.  If he said anything in response, the shower drowned him out.

Napoleon kicked his way clear of the sheet and frowned.  The smell of sweat and sex reminded him that the sheets were well past needing changing.  He decided coffee first, then he make with the bed changing.  With any luck, Illya would be finished by then and take over for Napoleon.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen and filled the percolator with water.  Measuring out the grounds, he put the pot on the stove and lit the burner.

That accomplished, he turned on the TV and settled into his favorite chair.  The new reporter was talking about this and that, then a photo of a ship filled the screen and Napoleon sat forward.

“Reports coming in from Fort Lauderdale indicate that the ship’s passengers and crew contracted the disease when it docked in Trinidad and became a ship of death.  The authorities are still working at removing the infected victims and attempting to identify the remains.  Cruise officials for the Regal have issued no comment and said that they are withholding the names of passengers pending notification of the next of kin.   So far, there have been no survivors found.  In the meantime, the ship remains under quarantine.”

In a daze, Napoleon stood and walked to his answering machine.  He hit rewind and then play.  Amy’s voice filled the room.

“Napoleon, sweetheart, I didn’t want you to worry, but Margaret and I have decided to spend the rest of the week in Florida after the cruise.  She’s never seen the Everglades.  Our ship, the Regal, will be docking in Fort Lauderdale in three days.  I should be home in plenty of time for our annual trek to Vermont.  I love you, sweetheart.  Bye!”

“I thought you listened to that last night.  Miss the old girl?”  Illya was toweling his hair and, when he received no answer, he stopped and let the fabric drop to his shoulders.  “Napoleon, what’s wrong?”

“Amy was on the Regal.  It’s just been put under quarantine.  She’s either dead or one of the zombie things, Illya.”  There was a flash of extreme loss in his eyes, quickly replaced with steely determination.  “This stops now.”

 

_En Route_

Victor Marton sipped his brandy and tried to keep his nerves from showing.  Even though he’d parted well enough from Alexander’s kind embrace during their last visit, Victor wasn’t the head of THRUSH then.  Alexander might well grab him and not let go this time, although the message had been genial enough.  He trusted his old friend, but only to a certain point.

He stared out at the clouds and remembered…

 

The night was miserable, cold and wet.  He’d stumbled to the hut of his contact, a woman with the French Resistance.  Monique was as warm and passionate in bed as she was deadly on the playing field.  She had captured Victor’s heart without a fight for he’d given it to her willingly.

It was not their night to meet, but he’d had a field op go very wrong and had watched several of his best men perish because of it.  He needed comfort, not from a bottle, but from a kind and loving hand.

He raised his hand to tap out their coded knock and that’s when he heard moans, a vocalization he knew so well.  Monique was a vocal lover and she expressed her pleasure loudly.  Many nights it had brought a smile to his lips, but not tonight.  

She was with someone?  He had thought she was his exclusively.  This wasn’t right.  He followed the wall of the house until he came to the window he knew was her bedroom and looked in.

There was a man with Monique, with **his** woman, and there was no doubt what they were doing.  The man’s face was obscured by the imperfections of the window, compounded by the rain and condensation from within, but Victor could see an arm with a tattoo sticking out from the sheets.  A tattoo he knew very well.  It was on the arm of his best friend.  How could Alexander betray him like this?  

Victor stumbled away, furious, heartsick, and betrayed.  The one man he trusted more than a brother and this was how Alexander had thanked him.  He went into the night and disappeared, away from his unit, away from the war, away from everything.  

It had been years later that Victor had learned it was not Alexander in the arms of his woman, but a rival who had gone to great lengths to try to utterly humiliate and destroy Victor.  Victor saw to it that the man’s death was equally humiliating and destructive.  Then slowly, carefully, he began rebuilding a bridge back to Alexander’s trust and friendship.

The plane hit an air pocket and shook Victor back to the here and now.  With any luck, Alexander would prove once and for all what sort of mettle he possessed.

 

_In New York_

Napoleon undid the knot in his tie with one hand and stared straight ahead.  He’d not spoken much since hearing the news that Amy was gone.  Illya watched him, carefully respectful of his partner’s grief and pain.  Napoleon knew he was here and when he was ready, he’d open up to Illya.  In the meantime, Illya would wait.  It was what he did best.

“Are you ready?”  Heckle, the shorter scientist, asked.  Illya had taken up Napoleon’s nicknames for them.  It was easier.

“Does it matter?” Illya murmured, pulling on the hospital gown and tying it at the neck. 

“Not really, no.  Although it will be easier for you if you don’t fight the chemical.”

“I’m an agent.  Fighting is my job.  How long will it take?”

“It depends upon mass and tissue density.”  Jeckle was drawing the serum into a syringe.  “You remember that if you do this, there’s no way back… presently?”

“Then you’d better get busy finding an antidote.  I don’t wish to remain like this any longer than necessary.”  Illya paused before climbing into the hospital bed, frowning as Heckle reached for restraints.  “What are those for?”

“With some of the test subjects, there has been a bit of a struggle with the transformation.  As you noted, you are a fighter.  These are for your safety and ours… providing they hold.”

“Napoleon?”  The dark-haired agent looked over at Illya, his eyes holding a mixture of sadness and determination in them.  Illya held out a hand to him and, after a moment, Napoleon took it and Illya pulled him into a bear hug.  “Love you,” he whispered so quietly it was nearly without sound.  There was an answering nod.  “Are you sure?”  There was a stronger nod and Illya released the man.  “Then, together as always.”  Illya climbed into the bed and took a deep breath.  

“You’ll not notice much.  We mix a strong sedative in with the serum.  If all goes well, you should wake upand it will all be over.”

“The last time someone told me that, I woke up with a mouth full of gauze and no wisdom teeth.”  Illya grunted as the straps were pulled tight.  He watched Napoleon climb into his bed and lie back.  “See you on the other side, partner.”

 

_At La Guardia Airport_

Victor climbed from the plane, closely followed by his security people.  On the tarmac, not far from where the plane set down was a dark sedan.  Standing beside it were Alexander and two agents.  Victor turned to his guards and waved them away.

“But, sir, we are here to protect you!”

“Then please do so from the security of my plane.  Alexander and I are old friends.  I will be as safe as a babe in its mother’s arms.”

“Sir, our orders –“

“-- Are easily overwritten by mine.  Now, go.  I will not have you meddling in this and causing anyone distress.”

They didn’t like it, but both THRUSH agents retreated to the plane and Victor put on his best smile as he approached Alexander.

“My old friend!”  Victor held his arms wide and the UNCLE agents moved in to frisk him.  “Alexander, such treatment.”

“When you are inviting a fox in to have tea in the hen house, Victor, it pays to be cautious.”  Waverly watched as his men carefully divested the man of his weapons.  “We shall just keep these for you, shall we?”

Victor sighed, even as they removed the clip from his tie, replacing it with a bland and, no doubt, bugged clip.  “I am here for help, Alexander.  It would not be to my benefit to be underhanded.”

Now satisfied that the THRUSH leader was unarmed, one of the agents held open a car door.

“After you, Victor.”  Waverly stepped aside and Victor removed his hat and climbed in.

 

_In UNCLE HQ_

 “Illya?  Come on, boy, wake up.”  Napoleon’s voice waded through miles of cotton to reach Illya’s ears.

“Tired,” Illya mumbled around the marbles in his mouth.  It was far too early in the morning to be playing such games.  He couldn’t quite remember what had just happened, but he did know he deserved about eight more hours of sleep.

“”I know, but Waverly needs us fifteen minutes ago.”  Illya got one eye open and found Napoleon as he bent over him.  “You’ve got to shake it off.”

“He’ll feel better after this.”

Illya couldn’t quite keep his eye open long enough to figure out who else was speaking.  There was a prick to his arm and he happily anticipated the tumble back into sleep… except that he started feeling more awake as each minute passed.

He blinked and opened both eyes.  Napoleon was dressing, albeit very carefully, as if he didn’t quite trust his hands.  Illya looked down at his arm and then up at the bottle of blood being pumped into his arm. “What just happened?  Am I hurt?”

Napoleon looked over at him from the task of slowly buttoning his shirt and offered him a smile.

“It’s interesting that you weren’t confused, but he obviously is.”  Illya realized someone other than Napoleon was in the room.  Two someones… magpies… No, not birds, scientists…. Heckle and Jeckle.

“Give him a minute.  I’ve been awake longer than he has,” Napoleon said, standing to tuck in his shirt.  There was a pile of shredded clothes at Napoleon’s feet and Illya looked down at them and then, head tilted, back up at Napoleon.  “Dress slowly,” Napoleon advised.

Dr. Heckle -- Illya thought furiously, trying to remember the man’s real name – checked the drained bottle and then removed the needle from Illya’s arm.  He was feeling more focused now and he sat up.  The other scientist swooped in and shined a light in one of Illya’s eyes.  A shot of pain went through Illya and he lashed out as he clamped his eyes shut.  When he opened them again, Heckle was bent over his fallen comrade.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Illya mumbled.

“No, it was my fault.  I forgot what I was dealing with.”  The man was cradling his arm and Illya could tell it was broken.

“Excuse me?”  Napoleon’s tone was aggressively polite.  “I think you want to rephrase that.”

“It’s shock,” Heckle muttered, reaching for a phone.  “Can we have Medical report to Lab Three, please?”

Illya climbed from the bed and carefully flexed his arms and neck.  “I don’t feel any different.”

Napoleon held out Illya’s pants.  “Wait for it.”

True to Napoleon’s warning, it took Illya several tries before he managed to dress without destroying his clothes.  He just felt so normal that it was hard to coach himself against the frailty of zippers, buttons, and seams.

He followed Napoleon through the corridors of UNCLE HQ and let the lack of reaction of their coworkers lull him into a sense of well-being.  No one looked at them as if they’d grown horns or sprouted wings.  Outwardly, the two men looked as they always did, with the exception of the sunglasses they both wore.

They arrived in front of Waverly’s office and Illya frowned.  The secretary was on the phone and the door was closed.  Yet he could hear the conversation on the other side of the metal as if the people were standing beside him.

“Pretty weird, huh?” Napoleon murmured and Illya nodded.  “I wouldn’t worry about it, though.  I’m a little creeped out myself.  It’s normal to feel anxious right about now.”

“How did you know I was feeling anxious?”

“I don’t know.  I just sort of sensed that you are uneasy.  It makes perfect sense, considering what we’ve been through.  No side effects?”

“No, I feel better than I have in years.”

“Me, too.  And stop being annoyed with me.”

“How?  Wait, you sensed it?”  Napoleon nodded and Illya frowned.  “How about this then?”

“Illya Kuryakin!  Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“What?  I just…”

“I know.  I can’t read your mind, partner.  I can just sort of feel things.  You?”

Illya closed his eyes and after a moment shook his head.  “Nothing.”

“That’s odd.  We will have to tell Heckle and Jeckle.”

The door opened and the two walked in.  Waverly was seated at his console and there was a man with his back to them.

“Gentlemen, none the worse for wear?”  Waverly was busy attending to his pipe.  A strange cologne hit Illya’s nose.  He could only remember smelling that once before.

“Hello, Victor,” he said and the gentleman turned. 

“Ah, Mr. Kuryakin.  I would say it is good to see you again –“

“But we would both know it to be a lie,” Illya finished.  He walked to the table and sat, never taking his eyes off of the THRUSH master.

“And you remember Mr. Solo?” Waverly gestured to Napoleon.  He nodded sharply to Marton and took his place at Illya’s side.

“A dubious pleasure the first time around,” Marton muttered and the two agents exchanged momentary glances.  

“I’ll try to make this time substantially more enjoyable,” Napoleon said.  

Waverly looked surprised and then nodded.  “They did say your senses would be accentuated by the process.”

“Excuse me, Alexander, but you are speaking in riddles.”

“And your being here is the biggest riddle of all.”  Napoleon could feel waves of discomfort coming from the man.  He wasn’t any happier about being here than UNCLE was in having him here.  “What are you doing here, Monsieur Marton?”

“Combating a mutual enemy, Monsieur Solo.”  Victor was obviously doing his best to remain polite.

“Mr. Marton has come to UNCLE to ask for our help.”  Waverly rapped his pen sharply on the table top and both agents frowned at the noise.

“Excellent,” Illya snapped. “You unleash an epidemic into the world and then want us to clean it up?”

“That is a rather succinct way to putting it but essentially you are correct.  You see, you have all our notes, Monsieur Kuryakin.  Without the notes, we cannot hope to manufacture the cure.”

“The notes have all been turned over to the CDC.”  Napoleon didn’t know if that was the case or not, but he had a feeling from Waverly that it was true. “We just have to wait.”

“Waiting is not a luxury we can afford.  There are several trouble spots that need our attention and with THRUSH’s cooperation, we might actually be able to survive this.”

“What does THRUSH have that UNCLE doesn’t have more of?”

“Money, Monsieur Kuryakin,” Victor said with a pandering smile.  “Much, much, much more money.”

                                                                                                *****

Napoleon dropped his keys onto the table and winced at the sound.  “I think I need earplugs.”

“Or something.”  Illya was massaging a temple.  “I never realized how noisy New York is.”

“You get used to it over time, I suppose.”  Napoleon carefully closed the drapes against the midday sun, sighing as the room darkened slightly.  “That’s better.  It was very bright out.”

“I suspect sunglasses will be the order of the day, along with earplugs.  This sensory overload is not quite what I anticipated.”

“It was entertaining to annoy Marton, though.”

“Us cooperating with THRUSH for money.  Have we fallen that far?”

“I think it’s more a case of THRUSH never having messed up quite so spectacularly that they have to come to us for help.  That was actually rather satisfying.”  Napoleon walked to his favorite chair and settled into it, his eyes closed in the simple pleasure of being home.

“Talk about having to eat crow or, rather, thrush, in this case.”  Illya walked to the wet bar and opened a bottle of whiskey.  He poured a generous portion in two glasses and carried them over.  He handed one glass to Napoleon and carried the other to the sofa.  He took a deep swallow of the whiskey and frowned.    “You need a better whiskey, Napoleon.  This has no taste.”

“Are you crazy?  That’s a red label.”  Napoleon sat up and sipped his.  “You’re right.  This is awful.  I spent good money on it, too.”

“I suspect it’s not the liquor’s fault.  They heightened all of our senses except taste.”

“At least it will make the new addition to our diet a bit more palatable.”    Napoleon set his glass aside and picked up a photo of Amy and himself.  They were embracing and laughing.  He stroked her face with his finger. 

Illya drained his glass.  “Napoleon, what have we done?  Napoleon?”

“I’m sorry?”  Napoleon looked over at his partner.  “I can’t believe she’s gone, Illya.”

“I know.”  Illya got up and sat on the arm of chair, running a gentle hand across Napoleon’s back, the touch both caressing and reassuring.  “We will stop this, Napoleon.  I swear we will.”

“You asked me something?”  Napoleon turned sad eyes toward Illya and the man smiled kindly, leaning down to kiss Napoleon’s lips.

“Nothing important.  Are you hungry?” 

“Nothing really appeals to me.”

“Bed?”  The question was barely whispered into Napoleon’s ear.

“Please.”  Illya stood and offered Napoleon a hand up.  He returned the picture to the end table and sighed.  “I’m going to miss her so much, Illya.”

Illya pulled him into a rough embrace, then kissed him with as much passion as he could muster.  He pulled away and studied Napoleon for a silent moment and then kissed him again.

Napoleon’s hands came up to rest on Illya’s shoulder, fingers curling into the muscle as lips sought lips.  Without a sound, they sank to their knees and began to undress, the cloth tearing easily in their haste to touch bare skin to bare skin.

“Stop,” Napoleon mumbled around Illya’s tongue.

“What’s wrong?”  Illya’s breath was coming in short pants.

“We have to be careful.  Remember what just happened with our clothes.  I think we need a rule, no excessive biting.  At least not until we know our limits.”

“That’s always a condition with you, isn’t there?”  Illya’s chest heaved as he waited.

“And now, bed, as I have no intention of explaining rug burn to king and country tomorrow.”

“Such the romantic.”  Illya stood and looked down, his penis level with Napoleon’s mouth.

The brunet didn’t wait for an invitation but began lavishing attention upon the tip, tonguing and sucking it alternately.  Illya moaned and splayed his legs in an attempt to stay upright.  Napoleon reached behind the Russian, one hand cupping each buttock, fingers moving ever closer to their target as Illya’s own fingers entwined themselves in Napoleon’s hair.

Illya’s head tipped back, lost in the wash of sensations as Napoleon worked his way up and down one side of Illya’s penis and teasing the sensitive perineum and balls with his fingers.  

Napoleon was careful not to push a finger into his partner.  Even with Illya this excited, a dry finger would hurt and possibly tear tender flesh.  No, penetration would be for later.  For now, this would be enough.  

Napoleon could feel the air tingling with excitement, Illya’s excitement, and that put his own libido into overdrive.  If this is what sex was destined to be like from now on, Napoleon had no complaints what so ever.

                                                                                           ****

“So, no more concerns about the end of your sex life?”  Illya was running his fingers through Napoleon’s thoroughly mussed hair.  Napoleon lifted his head from Illya’s stomach and chuckled.

“I think we just set an all-time high for climaxes reached in one go.  So, no complaints from me.  How are you feeling?”

“A little lightheaded, as if I stood too quickly.”

“It’s probably time for another dose of liquid refreshment.”  With a grunt, Napoleon stood and walked from the bed, taking care not to trip over the bedclothes that were strewn about on the floor.

“Must we?”  Illya sighed as he watched him.

 “Unless you want to climb out of bed, get dressed, and head for Medical, we only have one option, at least until we get good enough at giving each other transfusions,” Napoleon yelled from the kitchen.

“You make that sound sexual in a way.”  Illya sat up and fluffed the pillows as Napoleon walked back into the room, carrying two bottles.

“We should be so lucky.  Here.”

Illya took one of the bottles and held it up to the light.  “Do you suppose different types of blood have different flavors?”

“I’d settle for no flavor at all.”  Napoleon popped the top off, took a deep breath and began to drink.  He didn’t stop until he’d drained the bottle.  He made a face and set the now empty bottle aside.  “Ugh. That was as unpleasant as I anticipated.”

“I finally found something I like even less than spinach.”  Illya set his drained bottle beside Napoleon.  “If you will excuse me, I’m going to go brush my teeth for the next half hour.”

Napoleon nodded.  “Good idea.  Do we have any mouthwash?”

“I’ll put it on the grocery list.”          

“Get a case.”

                                                                                 ****

The communicator’s sharp call made Napoleon sit up straight in bed.  Beside him, Illya pulled a pillow over his head.

“I need earplugs…” Illya’s voice was muffled by the pillow.

Napoleon grimaced and reached for the instrument.  “Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin with you?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“We need you both to come to UNCLE HQ as quickly as possible.”

“Trouble, sir?”

“Suffice it to say earth-shattering, Mr. Solo.  As quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”  Napoleon looked over at Illya.  “You heard?”

“Every syllable.  It’s started.”

“Let’s hope we can finish it.”

Illya reached out and took Napoleon’s hand.  He gave it a gentle squeeze.  “Then for Amy.  Let’s go save the world.”


End file.
